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She’s worked with DS Taylor before. She’s quick to judge, too quick in Cara’s opinion, and the two of them have exchanged words more than once to that effect. But this isn’t the time to make enemies.
“Did he do any harm to your investigation?” she says instead.
“No, but …” Taylor scowls. Cara has the feeling there’s something she’s not telling her. “This is my case, and we know who did it. We have forensics tying the wife to the murder weapon, plus a history of previous violence. Just keep Griffin away from me.”
“Thank you for letting me know,” Cara says sweetly. “If you could leave it here—”
“I’ve spoken to the DCS already,” Taylor interrupts, then turns and walks off down the corridor.
“Shit,” Cara mutters under her breath. She could do without Griffin making things complicated. Then a thought occurs to her.
She goes into her office and clicks into the system. Sure enough, the time stamp of her last log in reads eleven forty-five PM last night. She chews on a nail, staring at it. She should change her password, she knows, but at least this way she can keep an eye on what he’s doing.
She looks out to the incident room, where the detectives are all working hard. They’ve spent the last twenty-four hours flat out, knowing the golden hour of opportunity is closing.
Deakin sticks his head around the door.
“How did it go with Libby?” he asks. He stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame as she tells him Libby’s analysis.
“So it’s not Rick Baker. He can’t have been more than five eight,” he says as Cara tells him about the position of the driver’s seat of the Ford Galaxy.
“That’s what I thought. And Libby asked about you,” Cara concludes. “Sure you don’t want to come tonight?”
He gives her a sarcastic look. “That’s all over with. As you well know.”
“I live in hope.”
“The PM report’s back,” he says, changing the subject. He comes in and sits next to her at her desk, leaning forward and pulling the report off the Record Management System. They read it in silence, taking in the complicated medical jargon, knowing exactly what it meant for these girls’ last moments.
Dr. Ross talks about the incisions on the neck. A transverse cut, splitting the trapezius muscle and any number of nerves and veins Cara couldn’t even start to pronounce. Severing of the spine between the C3 and C4 vertebrae.
He mentions the positive sign of petechial hemorrhages in the eyes and face on examination, damage to the larynx, to the superior horns of the thyroid cartilage. Bruising on the anterior and lateral aspects of the neck. No linear abrasions from fingernails, consistent with the hands being tied.
Cara knows he’s referring to the common scratches caused by victims trying to pry away choking fingers. She looks at Noah.
“What’s he saying? That they were strangled as well?”
“Looks that way,” he mutters.
She turns back. There are photos: dark bruising on her wrist, broken fingernails. Cara imagines the poor girl rubbing her skin raw, scrabbling at the inside of the trunk, trying to get free as she listened to her friend being murdered in the back.
She forces herself to read on.
Antemortem stab wounds. Four in total, from the same weapon. Estimated to be from a single-sided blade about the size of a small kitchen knife.
Cause of death: strangulation compounded by blood loss from multiple penetrating injuries, likely resulting from knife wounds. Head removed postmortem.
Cara takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly.
“Nothing back from the lab yet?” she says, at last.
Noah shakes his head. “Blood samples taken,” he says, continuing to read. “Along with fingernail scrapings and EEK.”
Early evidence kit. The standard swabs for rape.
“But Ross didn’t see any signs of sexual assault?”
“Not on either victim, no.”
